Silent Contemplation
by Lady Knight 1512
Summary: She watches him because she loves his body.


**Title:** Silent Contemplation  
**Chapter: **1/1

**Author:** ladyknight1512  
**Fandom: **The Vampire Diaries (TV-verse)  
**Characters:** Elena Gilbert, Damon Salvatore  
**Pairing: **Damon/Elena  
**Genre:** Romance  
**Rating: **M, just to be safe

**Prompt:** Body  
**Summary: **She watches him because she loves his body.  
**Spoilers: **None of the content of the show is referenced specifically, and it's set way in the future and kind of AU, so…none.  
**Warning(s): **Not smutty (definitely not smutty, because I just can't write that stuff) but hopefully toeing the sensual line.  
**Word Count: **676  
**Disclaimer:** These characters are the property of L. J. Smith. Too bad because I wouldn't mind making Damon mine.

**Author's Note: **This is my first ever TVD story and I'm really new to the fandom, so here's hoping it all turns out okay.

**- o – o – o -**

He's standing by the liquor cabinet in the parlour, pouring himself a drink. She's leaning against the wall by the door, completely silent, watching him.

When her vigil reaches the minute mark, his eyebrow quirks and a smirk, _that_ smirk, tugs at his mouth. He doesn't look up at her, doesn't so much as glance in her direction; he doesn't need to. She knows that he knows what she's doing, what she's thinking.

He told her once, many years ago now, that he always knows when she's watching him. He said it was because of her eyes, that he can physically feel them on him, lingering like a whisper in an empty hall.

The logical part of her says his awareness is probably more due to his heightened sense of smell, but she likes his explanation better.

She's never denied the way she watches him, not even when it was a new pastime, back before she was Turned. The reasons were different then, first wariness, followed by curiosity, then fascination. Now she watches him because she loves his body.

She loves his swagger, fluid and sure, arrogant and lazy. She loves the way his fingertips glance across books spines, or dance over her ribs as if they're piano keys.

Even when he's still, she enjoys letting her gaze rest on him, the sharp definition of his jaw, the cleft of his chin. Sometimes he sits and stares into the fire, a tumbler of blood or whiskey in one hand, and a frown will darken his face. When this happens, she can't resist going to him, perching on his knee, and smoothing the glare away with gentle fingers. It's usually at this point she remembers that she loves touching him as well.

He caps the bottle and raises the glass to his lips. Her eyes lock on the column of his throat as he gulps the liquid back in one, two, three swallows. He licks the corner of his mouth, gathering a stray drop, and she finds herself mimicking the action.

The tumbler clinks as it hits the table and then he's crossing the room to her, slowly, deliberately.

He braces his hands on the wall either side of her head. She breathes deep, inhaling the slightly spicy scent that always clings to him.

There's just a breath of space between them now, and he leans in, presses his lips to hers.

As kisses go, it doesn't really compare to the others they usually share. She's not used to him being so…still. But it isn't bad. How could it be? His lips are soft and warm and they taste of whiskey, a drink she doesn't actually like, unless she tastes it on him.

She can feel the heat of him bridging the gap between them; she raises a hand to his chest, intending to pull him closer. Instead, she flattens it over his heart, trails it down, down, over the smooth planes of his chest to the ridges of his abdomen. Her fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt.

His hands cup her cheeks and he pulls back. One finger curls around a lock of hair as he cocks his head.

She's learnt, from watching him as she does, that there is more than one variation of the head cock and his eyes always tell which one is being used…if you know what to look for.

When his eyes are hard, flat, it's a sign that he's feeling dangerous, that he'll taunt, play, until finally he's had enough. He hasn't looked at her like that in a long time; now is no different. His eyes, that beautiful ice blue that, in all her years, she's never seen anywhere else, are soft, slightly creased at the edges, as he searches her face. She never knows what he looks for, he always refuses to tell her, but there are a number of possibilities.

He smiles, a proper smile, _her_ smile, she often likes to think, and she knows that, once again, he's found whatever he was looking for.

**- o – o – o -**

**A/N2: This is way shorter than my average, but I really love it. I actually achieved what I set out to create! Hallelujah! In case you're unaware, the language was really what I was trying to make work for me in this piece (hence the lack of general narrative) and I think I succeeded, at least relatively well. Let me know what you thought please!**


End file.
